Dear Jolene:
Thank you for entrusting Boyfriend Whisper Enterprises with your matchmaking needs. If you follow my instructions precisely, you are guaranteed to secure a date with Brendon McDonough within three weeks or your money back. Your first set of instructions is as follows:
Step One: At tomorrow’s Anti-Bullying Assembly, sit one row ahead of Brendon, and two or three seats away from him.
Step Two: Five minutes after the assembly begins, catch his eye and yawn, roll your eyes, or otherwise express your boredom.
Step Three: Text him the following quiz questions. (Use extreme caution and do not allow faculty to catch you doing this.)
Madden or Mortal Kombat?
Angry Birds or Plants vs. Zombies?
Anthrax or Mastodon?
Fight Club or Unforgiven?
Adidas or Coogi?
Jalapeños or Black Olives?
Step Four: Give him a smile or thumbs-up after each answer (regardless of the answer).
Step Five: Resume your normal activities. Do not initiate contact with Brendon for the next several days. Additional instructions will be sent at that time.
Good luck, and remember, with Boyfriend Whisperer Enterprises, “Love is but a whisper away.”
Sincerely,
The Boyfriend Whisperer
www.boyfriendwhispererenterprises.com
I grin as I hit “send” and save the email into its case folder. This is my favorite part of the job. The research portion is tedious and lonely and—like last night—sometimes freaking freezing. But seeing my data gel into a plan makes all those hours spent sleuthing worthwhile. Tomorrow during assembly, Brendon McDonough will marvel at Jolene’s cool taste in music and movies and apps and even pizza toppings. And within a few weeks, he’ll ask her out. Guaranteed.
Chris sets his tray down across from mine. It’s grilled cheese day, and he’s bought five of them. Boy can eat. He’s six-foot-three and presumably still growing. Lately, I’ve noticed his forearms are growing nicely, too. His sleeves are pushed up, and I have to force myself not to stare.
“Did you hear the news?”
He asks this just as I bite into my apple, so I can’t help but answer with my mouth full. “What news?”
“Supposedly Duke and UNC will be at the tournament next weekend. Along with UVA and Maryland.”
“That’s awesome.” I swallow and flash him a smile. “Bet you’re on their short list.”
Chris shrugs and stuffs half a sandwich into his mouth. Literally half a sandwich. “I dunno.”
“Are you kidding me? A junior averaging fourteen points a game? They’ll be watching you.”
He pops open a soda and takes a long swig. When he sets it down, I can see the worry in his eyes. He focuses his attention on the second half of his sandwich as though it’s a fascinating culinary delicacy. Fromage Grillé du Cafétéria.
“Come on, Chris, you know—”
“Forget it. Sorry I brought it up.”
Fine. I take another bite of my apple. Chris is totally college b-ball material, but the Grand View boy’s team is so lame, scouts haven’t noticed him yet. In fact, unlike most schools, the attention for the past couple of years has been on our girl’s team. And well, specifically, on me. I’ve had scouts calling since I was a freshman, and as soon as I became a junior this year, the scholarship offers began to roll in.
Come to think of it, I don’t want to talk about it either.
Fortunately, Massey arrives at that moment. He sets his tray down and swipes Chris across the back of his head. “What happened to you the other night? I thought we were supposed to play Call of Duty?”
“Dude. Watch it.” Chris pushes Massey’s arm away, which sends him reeling into the table.
“Hey, you two.” I grab our sodas so they don’t spill. “Knock it off or I’ll report you to Principal Cho. Grand View has a zero-tolerance policy toward violence.”
Massey laughs. “Someone paid attention in assembly.”
I did. Sort of. When I wasn’t watching the Jolene and Brendon Show, which seemed to go according to plan.
Massey sits down. “Seriously, man, where were you? We were about to storm Istanbul.”
Chris grunts. “I stopped for pizza and ended up hanging with Lexi for a while.” He gives me a strange look, and my face grows warm. We did part on a rather awkward note.
“Are you going to finish that?” Chris points to my half-eaten apple.
“You can’t be serious.” I hand him the apple, take a deep breath, and broach the subject that’s been on my mind since yesterday’s practice. “Speaking of the tournament, it’ll be fun to get away for a weekend. I mean, Virginia Beach—how cool is that?”
Chris smiles. “Pretty cool.”
For one brief, delusional moment, I allow myself to believe his smile means he’s imagining sipping hot cocoa with me by a fireplace, but the dream is short-lived.
“Do you know we’ll be there the same weekend as the Polar Plunge?” he asks.
“Polar Plunge?”
“Yeah. It’s where people jump into freezing-cold water to raise money for Special Olympics.”
“Meaning they jump into the Atlantic? In Virginia? In February? That’s insane.”
“I know!” Chris leans in and lowers his voice so only Massey and I can hear. “I’m totally doing it. You guys should, too. It’s in the middle of the afternoon, so it’s after your game and before ours.”
“What?” Massey stares at Chris as though he’s lost his mind. “Coach won’t let us do that. Before our game? No way.”
Chris shrugs. “What Coach doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I’m in. Already paid my fifty bucks.”
“Wait.” I hold up my hand. “Are you telling me you’re paying money for the privilege of diving into a frigid ocean?”
“Yep. I told you. It’s a charity event. It’s all for a good cause. Come on, say you’ll do it.” His big blue eyes plead with me.
I hesitate. I definitely want to spend as much time as possible with Chris while we’re in Virginia Beach, but a Polar Plunge does not have quite the same romantic appeal as sipping hot chocolate by a fireplace. On the other hand, if he’s already signed up for it, what choice do I have? “Well, I suppose …”
“Not you, too, Lexi.” Massey shakes his head. “Your parents will never go for this.”
“As Chris said, what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
“Right. Like they won’t know.”
“They won’t. Because they won’t be there.”
“What?” Chris and Massey ask me this in unison. Both look as though I’ve told them my parents have sprouted wings and flown to the moon.
Mom and Dad have a bit of a reputation at my games as helicopters, which is appropriate because not only do they hover, they sometimes get so loud, the fans around them have to duck and cover their ears. I am so looking forward to a game—and a whole weekend—without them.
“They won’t be there,” I repeat. “Mom’s boss is getting married up in New York, so I’m on my own.” I glance at Chris to see whether he understands the significance of this. The two of us, practically unsupervised, for a weekend at the beach.
“This trip just keeps getting cooler and cooler,” he says.
“I know, right?” I give him what I hope is a flirty smile.
“So I guess this means …”
“Means what?”
“It means you’re in? For the Plunge?”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “Sure. I’m in.”
I spend half the weekend trying to decide on the perfect hairstyle and outfit for next week’s Polar Plunge. I am becoming ridiculous on so many levels. When my mother peeks in on me Sunday afternoon, I’m sprawled on my bedroom floor amidst a pile of clothes worrying—of all things—about whether my diving shoes make my feet look too big.
“What on earth?” Mom scans my room. “When did the tornado hit?�
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“Sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
“Honestly, Alexis, what is going on with you lately?”
There it is again. I grit my teeth and force a smile. No sense snapping at her. No, in fact, I need to be extra nice. “I’m fine, Mom. I do have something I need to ask you, though.”
Mom wades through the piles, pausing at my trophy case to straighten a few errant pieces. She makes her way over to my bed, picks up a sweatshirt and begins folding it. “What is it, sweetheart?”
I grab a pair of sweat socks and twist them around and around on my left hand. “Saturday after our game, some of the girls are going to … I mean, Coach said if we want, we can …”
“Can what? Spit it out, Lexi.”
I take a deep breath. “If we want to watch the rest of the tournament and cheer on the boys, we can stay in Virginia Beach an extra night and come back Sunday.”
She squints, and I can practically see her chief financial officer’s mind calculating the risks and benefits.
“I’ll worry about you being down there alone …”
“Well, it’s not like I’ll be alone alone. There’ll be—”
“Of course. Your coaches and the chaperones.”
“Exactly.” I twist the socks tighter and tighter around my fingers. She has to let me stay. She has to. “Come on, Mom. It would be better than me coming back and spending Saturday night by myself here.”
Mom nods. “And there will be scouts. Staying for the other games would give you more time to talk to them.”
I stop the twisting. “Right. Scouts.”
Mom grabs a t-shirt and tucks it under her chin as she folds. “Chris will be there, right?”
“Yes. What does that have to do with anything?”
She shrugs. “Nothing. I know you can take care of yourself. I’ll just feel better knowing he’s with you.”
I nod, keeping my smile in check. “Of course. He’ll keep me out of trouble.”
By now, Mom has a whole pile of folded shirts beside her. She looks at my feet and frowns. “What’s with the diving shoes?”
“Oh, nothing.” I pull them off and toss them into a corner. “I was … checking to see whether my feet have grown since last summer.”
A lame explanation, especially since they stretch, but Mom seems satisfied. “I suppose it’s fine. Make sure you keep your phone charged so you can text and let us know how you’re doing.”
“Will do. Thanks, Mom.”
She leans forward. “Now for the real question: Are you ready for the game? Have you worked out the problem with your fade shot or does Dad need to drill you on it?”
I shake my head. “I’m getting better at them. And I’m seriously killing it on my free throws. Went eleven for twelve at practice the other day.”
Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excellent. Eleven stars for you.”
We both laugh. When I was little, Mom and Dad awarded me with a glow-in-the-dark star for every basket I made during my games. I stuck them on the ceiling above my bed until I had a whole galaxy of success shining over me. Back then, those stars meant everything. I’d fall asleep counting them night after night.
Mom stands to leave. She pauses at my bedroom door. “Do you need any spending money for the trip?”
I shrug and look away. “Sure. Twenty dollars?”
“You sure that’ll be enough?”
“I think so. If not, I still have some babysitting money left over from last month. I’ll be fine.” She and Dad have no idea that I have my own business and an investment account with more than two thousand dollars in it. I feel bad keeping it from them, but to echo Chris’s words, it’s for a good cause.
Mom closes the door, and I jump up and do a little happy dance. It’s happening. Me, Chris, Virginia Beach. Sweet. As I grab the pile of shirts to put away, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Chris.
Chris: My shift ends at 4. Wanna see the new x-men movie?
I grin and my heart flutters in my chest. Why, yes. Yes, I do.
Chris works at the movie theater, which means he gets free tickets and even free popcorn sometimes. To me, it seems like the best job a guy could have, but he insists it’s not all glitz and glamour.
“The chunks of hotdog were the worst,” he’s saying to one of his co-workers as I walk up to him at the snack counter at the end of his shift.
“Hotdogs?” I ask.
“Hey.” He grins when he sees me. “Forget it. You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, but I do.”
Chris shakes his head. “No. You don’t. Little kid had a … reaction to some of the 3D effects.”
“Ew. Got it.” My gag reflex kicks in and I hold up my hand to keep him from divulging the details.
“You must be Lexi.” His coworker, a skinny guy with bushy black hair, leans forward on the counter, his eyebrows raised so high they disappear behind the hair. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He grins at Chris, whose cheeks redden as he scowls and turns away.
I shrug and mumble something about not believing everything you hear. I should be used to it by now, but I’m always still surprised when kids from other schools know who I am. I’m also a little surprised to see it bother Chris—he’s usually my biggest cheerleader—but he’s been sensitive about basketball lately so maybe he’s tired of everyone fussing over me.
We order two large popcorns—because one can never have too much popcorn at the movies—and make our way in. It’s one of those theaters with huge reclining chairs that slide all the way out and back, with big trays and cup holders for our stuff. We settle into our seats well before the movie’s start time. Chris has seen most of these trailers a dozen times, but he still wants to watch each one. He says it’s all part of the movie-going experience.
“That one’s on the top of my list,” he whispers to me after an intense preview for a Russell Crowe flick. “We have to see that.”
“Definitely.” I sneak a peek at his profile, strong and beautiful in the glow of the screen. We’ve seen hundreds of movies together over the years, and his eyes still shine as brightly as when we were kids while he watches. Chris and I love the same kinds of movies. The more action, the better—gunfights, car chases, badass martial arts moves. We have a running joke where we always bet on the number of explosions we’ll see before the flick starts.
About halfway through the feature, as I’m losing myself in the X-Men’s exploits to save Earth from annihilation, a phone rings. It’s the guy next to me, and it’s super loud, with a ringtone that blares like a bullhorn. I jump in my seat. For real? Did he not see the four reminders to turn off his phone before the movie? Even worse, he answers it.
“Hello? Hey, man. How’s it hanging?” He’s not even whispering. It’s like he’s sitting at home watching Netflix and chatting with his bestie.
I look over at Chris in disbelief, but for some reason, he’s staring at his own phone. I take a deep breath and lean over. “Excuse me. Maybe you should take that outside.” I say it as sweetly as possible, but the guy gives me the finger and keeps talking. Whoa. I smell beer on his breath and realize he’s slurring his words. Before I can figure out how to respond, Chris is standing in front of him.
“Buddy, you need to hang up or leave. And you might want to apologize to my friend for disrespecting her.”
I’m not sure who’s more shocked—the guy or me. Chris has never been the type to pick a fight. In the seventh grade, a couple of boys made fun of a dorky hat he wore, and I swear he would have let them pick on him for weeks if I hadn’t stepped in one day and threatened to kick their butts.
Phone Dude tucks in his recliner and stands. Chris has about four inches on him, but the guy’s arms are massive, and a sinister snake tattoo curls out from under his shirt and up the back of his neck.
By now, everyone in the theater has forgotten the movie and is watching the live show playing out in Row H. Chris lifts his hands in the air in surrender mode but s
tands his ground. “I don’t want any trouble. I just want to let all these nice people enjoy their movie.”
The guy surveys the room. He wouldn’t do anything stupid in front of so many witnesses, would he? On the other hand, maybe now that he has an audience, he’ll decide to show off how tough he is.
He steps toward Chris and flexes his right hand, but before he can take a swing, three theater staff appear out of nowhere and surround him. “Show’s over, man,” says one of Chris’s managers. “Let’s go.”
The guy scowls, but he backs off, grabs his coat, and stalks out. He knocks over some poor lady’s soda on his way down the steps, and the manager rushes over to assure her they’ll replace it.
The audience breaks out in cheers, and the kid on the other side of Chris gives him a fist bump as he sits down.
“Holy crap,” I say as we push back our seats. “I can’t believe you took that dude on. He was a beast.”
Chris shrugs and shows me his phone—an SOS text to his manager. “I knew Tony and those guys would show up pretty quick. Also, I had no idea how big the guy was until he stood up.”
I start to take a sip of my soda, but Chris leans over and grabs my cup to stop me. “Hey.” His voice is soft. “Sorry I didn’t get the apology out of him.”
My mouth goes dry as his hand covers mine, and I have to force myself not to stare at his lips. “You did great. Seriously.”
The rest of the movie rolls by in a blur. I’ve never been the damsel-in-distress type, but that was freaking hot. As far as I’m concerned, the X-Men have nothing on Chris Broder.
Dear Jolene:
Nice job at the assembly. You’re well on your way to claiming Brendon as your boyfriend. Your next steps are simple:
Step One: Wednesday after school, Brendon will be practicing drums with his metal band. You are to send him the following text:
The Boyfriend Whisperer Page 2